The price of …

The price of living long:

too many old friends don’t.

My iPad ...

 

My iPad is convinced I want to be told 

every time Princess Catherine visits 

some place in England in the course 

of her royal duties: smiling graciously,

looking beautiful in expensive clothes,

and acting ‘normal’ just like she was

an ordinary person, you know? 

It sends me notifications for every 

little thing. Well, what I think is, she 

is undoubtedly the British royal family’s 

greatest asset, and probably a good person 

most of the time, like most of us — and no, 

I emphatically do not care to share 

every detail of her incredibly boring life.

The rain comes ...

The rain comes heavy,

the thunder booms.

For this present moment

I relax my fear of fires.

In my back yard ...

in my back yard

sudden geranium —

yes it’s spring

Hey, Stupid ...

 

Hey, Stupid, 

you’re too smart 

to be stupid like that

let alone to be offended

when I call you out 

for careless risk-taking.

Old ladies gotta have

some privileges.

(And crones just might be wise.)

I want you safe and well

and I’m not too polite to tell you.

So suck it up!

(NO, I'm not giving the back story, lol.)

I think about her grace …

 

I think about her grace

and her smile, at once warm 

and shy — the beautiful artist 

who died on Saturday

(at an age we think too young).

She kept her illness secret.

I think about her paintings

of our landscape, our mountain:

naturalistic and visionary

simultaneously. I didn’t get to see

her latest exhibition. Neither did she.

'Black Jack Poets' group ...

‘Black Jack Poets’ group admin

sad: no-one posts any more.

Quick! I write to the rescue.

(Facebook group. 

3 lines, 7 syllables each = 21.)

What, 4.27 ...

What, 4.27

only? And I just wrote

that time goes too fast.

In one afternoon, two

poems so much opposed!

The other poem mentioned was not written for my 'Book of Days', but I’ll show it to you anyway:

It goes staccato now –

when I bend to the past,

see the miles covered.

I’d like a softer flow,

lento or legato.

Prompted simultaneously by Friday Writings #95 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Rommy invites us to be inspired by the idea of losing track of time, and by Grace at dVerse introducing us to the Flamenca or Seguillida Gitana form.

Ryubun (Editorial)

The term ryubun was created by poet Orrin Prejean, for haibun-like writings using senryu rather than haiku. This is what he says about it: 

*ryubun: is a coined term i created about two yrs ago with the help of a Japanese poet on twitter. it means 'Willow Essays or Willow Sentences/Writings' 'Senryu' means 'River Willow.' In an attempt to show how poetic and full of depth Senryu can be (like the Haiku), I didn't want to use the term 'Haibun'....

I have his permission, indeed encouragement, to use this label when it applies to my own writings. I continue to use the label 'haibun' as well, to enable these pieces to be found by those who don't know of the new word.

Nasty little phone scammer ...

 

Nasty little phone scammer, trying to spark fear

with your alarmist, authoritative wording –

if I didn’t know you were just a recording,

I’d very much like to scream in your ear

to cause, if not pain, at least annoyance.

(Although, you’re not a complete waste of time,

having inspired this morning’s rhyme.)

What I did was just laugh and hang up. Good riddance!

Lunch with old friends ...

 

Lunch with old friends from the VOW writers’ group (Village of Women). The group came to a natural end a few years back, but some of us still meet for lunch and a catch-up several times a year. One of us brought a new poem and read it to the rest of us; we loved it. We loved even more hearing of her new adventures and new-found self-confidence. 

we ageing women

tell each other, meaning it: 

‘You look beautiful!’

The wild girl ...

 

‘The wild girl in the heart’ 

(Dorothy Hewett’s phrase)

hides, these days, in a slow,

faltering body. I navigate stairs

bit by bit, angling my feet

painstakingly, not to trip.

Dorothy herself got old and fat,

but still sat down on the grass 

with Nigel Roberts and me

at a Montsalvat poetry fest,

discussing our various erotica.

If I sank to the ground now,

I don’t think I’d ever get up!

I write a poem for today …

I write a poem for today.

It’s much too long. I add it 

to a different collection.

I try another, realise 

it invades a friend’s privacy 

(even though I don’t name them).

The hour is late. I promised

to send some people ‘absent’ Reiki.

I decide to leave poetry here for tonight.

The lanky schoolgirl from over-the-road ...

The lanky schoolgirl from over-the-road

arrives with her shy, sweet smile,

her good manners and her capability,

to work an hour in my garden.

Remembering myself at 13,

I wonder about her dreams,

and what may be a vivid inner life – 

but don’t intrude by asking.

Midnight finds me …

Midnight finds me

closing my iPad,

fossicking for a square 

of bedtime chocolate,

and selecting a book

to fall asleep with.

On the chair beside me,

Poppi cat is already sleeping.

If she wakes later

she’ll come to check

I’m safely in my bed,

then go to her own.

I love the late. Outside 

the street is dark and peaceful. 

A jumble of ...

A jumble of thoughts, tasks, experiences –

and getting to bed late, again. Somewhere

in the mix, in the conglomeration of random

and dutiful, I pause and search for these lines.

Tackled a task ...

 

Tackled a task I was dreading.

It taught me something –

various things –

more than I wanted to learn.

On the way to completion,

so many mistakes! 

I wrestled them and won.

(Or perhaps it was more like 

solving a difficult puzzle.)

Yes it was worth doing, 

and now I know how. 

But I’ll cheer tomorrow.

A day of little things ...

A day of little things

and some self-indulgence ...

I’m glad of what it brings,  

this day of little things.

Each tiny detail sings;

each moment beams effulgence.

A day of little things

is some self-indulgence!

What pleasure ...

 

What pleasure rediscovering a mind

with thoughts and questings very like my own!

And then the greater pleasure, when I find

this same mind also ranging the unknown

in conversations where we both have grown.

She came to visit and to reconnect.

It had been a while; I didn’t expect

our brief chat with a cuppa would ignite

such serendipity, nor recollect

what magic happens when we share our light.

Suddenly freezing night ...

 

Suddenly freezing night.

I remember all my soft toys 

lined up on a bedroom shelf,

and choose Buster to cuddle.

***

Sad-eyed shaggy brown bear,

years ago he caught my gaze

from the stall opposite mine 

at Pottsville market. It was as if 

he was communicating, urgently. 

When no-one else bought him 

by the end of the day, it was clear 

he was meant to come home with me.

***

Clasped to me under the blankets,

yes, his rough ungainly bulk 

warms my blood for the whole

rest of the night … the restful night.

My students bring ...

 

My students bring simple, healthy food

beautifully presented, to share. They bring

their soft hearts and bright minds to share.

The day grows colder, but our hands

warm to the work. When we part again,

at the end of the day, it’s with kisses.